


Out of the Fire

by traceylane



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: M/M, except theyre mostly just talking about it, gangster au, like goodfellas style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2756879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traceylane/pseuds/traceylane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The death of a friend sparks heated discussions. Gally is protective, and Minho is totally willing to start a fight.</p><p>(snippets of canon pushed through a mob fiction juice maker to create a universe where they smoke and play hold 'em.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Fire

Ben’s dead on a Thursday.

They’re playing cards in the back room of the small bar Teresa owns on Fifth, as they did on Thursdays, when Minho and Thomas come back with the news—bullets, six. Three in his chest, two in his stomach, one above his right eye. There’s no way of knowing if that part is true, of course, since the body hasn’t turned up, and they doubt it ever will.

This information washes over the rest of the table and they sit in silence, shock and grief tied to thoughts of what could be coming next.

Gally speaks first, unsurprisingly pissed. “Fuckin’ politics.”

"Don’t go flipping tables again, Gal," Newt says, his eyes far away as he takes a drag from his cigarette and tosses a five dollar bill onto the table.

"Yes, Gally, please," Thomas says, tucking into his seat and glancing at the row of cards flipped face-up on the table, "Let us sit down before you pop a fuckin’ vein."

 

 “Looks like they’re not done with us yet,” Newt continues.

The other family in the city had requested their support as they moved into a relationship with one of the big corporations making their way into the area, aptly named WCKD. They were powerful, friendly with the local government and, as far as Alby knew, very, very dangerous. So he had skipped out on the deal; at the time it had seemed like the two parties had departed on good terms, but it was clear now that that wasn’t the case.

 “Fuck me if I’m done with  _them_ ,” Minho mutters.

“We’re not gonna fuck with Harriet,” Gally says, tossing his cards in. “Fold.”

“The hand? Or was that about Ben?” Brenda asks, her eyes flashing as they did when she was ready to start something.

“Shut your fucking mouth. I’m just saying—they want us to retaliate. Then what? Who are they gonna hit next? Minho? You? Alby?”

“They’re not gonna get Alby,” Minho says. “They’d start a fuckin’ war.” He looks at Newt, a smile playing on his face. “Or  _you’d_  end up in charge. I don’t know what’s worse.”

Newt flicks cigarette ash at him. Brenda deals another round.

Gally shakes his head. “One of our guys is dead and you’re making jokes.”

Minho puts money on the table. “You’re just scared they’re gonna get your baby here,” Minho presses. Gally reddens, and all other eyes shift to Thomas, who looks up from the game and stares back at them before realizing they’re referring to him.

Gally starts, “He isn’t my—”

“ _I_  think we should get ‘em back,” Thomas says casually. Gally stares at him, disbelieving, and Minho almost beams,  _Attaboy_.

“Thomas—”

“You keep wanting to be diplomatic or whatever about this, but it’s not working.” He crosses his arms, shrugs. “If we don’t move forward, we let them walk over us. Not a hard decision, Gally.” Then Thomas takes a bill from the stack sitting in front of Gally and places it in the middle of the table, says “Call.”

"You can’t—"  
  
“Call,” Thomas repeats, firmer, and Brenda deals the turn without a glance at Gally.

“Brenda!”

"Trust him, Gally," Brenda says, the corner of her mouth pulled upwards, "He’s better at this than you."

Newt snickers, and follows Thomas’ lead. “Call.”

“Look—one death is better than six.”

“Six deaths is better than looking like a bunch of pussies,” Minho shoots back, and Brenda raises her glass, “Hear, hear.”

Gally leans forward suddenly, and everyone presses their backs against their seats, almost genuinely frightened that Gally is literally going to turn the table over. “See? Listen to yourself! We get fuckin’ burned because you can’t stay out of the fire!”

Newt looks at him, then at Minho, who’s started to twist Newt’s beer bottle between his fingers without taking a sip.

So touches Minho’s knee lightly under the table,  _Don’t._

(He’s been getting good at this, this being able to sense the sudden shifts between Minho messing around, and Minho ready to murder in cold blood.)  
  
(But what he hasn’t been getting good at is keeping either one of them under control.)  
  
“Look, do you think we fucking wanted this? That  _I_  wanted this?”  
  
Gally gives him a glare that would drill a hole through anyone other than Minho, who returns the look with equal ferocity.

“I think,” Gally says quietly, “That you’re not exactly devastated about other people starting to share your  _total lack_  of self-preservation.”

Eyes, again, flicker to Thomas.

Minho opens his mouth, to spit back something acidic, or shout at the top of his lungs, or breathe fire, but the door to the room opens and they turn.

"Are they playing alpha dog again?"

Teresa strides in, walking over and setting a glass of copper liquid in front of Brenda. “Because if anyone’s alpha dog in here, it’s me.”  
  
Her voice is teasing, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes when she looks at them. Minho and Gally drop the subject.

Newt breathes a little easier when he turns his cards over, although the tension in the room hasn’t exactly dissolved. “Two pairs.”

“Three aces,” Minho mutters, tossing down his hand.

Before Gally can open his mouth, Thomas plucks Gally’s cards from his fingers and slaps them down.

“Straight.”

  
—  
—

Brenda and Teresa had called it a night a while ago, and Minho had promised to close up when they were all ready to leave.

He can hear them arguing in the alley behind the building as he sits at the bar. What they’re saying is muffled behind the door—he catches snippets, like  _“bottom of the river”,_  and  _“reckless as fuck”,_  and _“keep you safe”—_ but Thomas and Gally have had this fight so many times that Minho doesn’t need to hear a word to know what they’re going on about.

But somehow it feels worse this time around.   
  
Then he feels a hand on his shoulder, but that’s familiar, too, so he doesn’t turn to see who it is.  
  
Instead he murmurs, “He’s giving him hell tonight.”

Newt leans forward, snaps up Minho’s glass from his hands and drains it before he can react. Minho’s original plan had been to drink it himself, but Newt, being Newt, is allowed to continue his night without a knife in his chest.  
  
He takes the adjacent seat. “Who, Gally?” he asks, licking his lips and smirking like he’s well aware of the terms of his immunity. “Nah—he’s just worried.”  
  
“Worried what? That he’s gonna give himself a fuckin’ aneurysm?”   
  
Newt laughs. “You know what—‘bout his boy.” He circles his finger around the rim of Minho’s glass. “You know Tommy. He’s not one to, ah,” he pauses, then continues delicately, “remember his place.”  
  
Minho smirks. “Fuckin’ kid can’t stay still.”  
  
Newt nods, “Exactly. So, you know—he’s just scared Tommy’s gonna end up like Ben.”  
  
 _Meaning, probably in a ditch,_  Minho thinks.

Newt adds on, “And you, you’re no help, shitty influence you are.”

Minho scoffs. “I don’t know why you’re all acting like I’m gonna get  _him_  killed—last time I checked, I wasn’t the one who pulled a fuckin’ gun out in front of Sonya.”

Newt winces, “Point taken.”  
  
“ _I’m_  not, by the way.”  
  
“Not what?”  
  
“Not scared. I liked Ben. He was a good kid. But Thomas is smarter. I would know.”

“Even with the Sonya thing?”

“ _Especially_  with the Sonya thing.”

Newt smiles, and Minho continues, shrugging. “I’m just saying—No matter what kind of shit he gets himself into—he’s gonna get himself out. I would bet on it.”

“Well, I’m gonna draw the line at betting on our friend’s life, but good to know you’re not completely incapable of hope.”  
  
Minho huffs out a laugh and tilts his glass back and forth, letting the bits of ice slide around at the bottom—they’re all that’s left.  
  
Outside, things have gone quiet. Again, it’s familiar to Minho, so he turns modestly away from the alleyway door to look at Newt, his cheeks a tad pink.  
  
“And you? You worried about your boy?”  
  
Newt stares back at him, smiling faintly with his elbow on the bar and his face in his hand, “Oh, yeah. Thinks he’s the fuckin’ shit, but he’s a buggin’ dumbass. Can’t even hold a drink in his hand without someone taking it.”  
  
“You’re an asshole.”  
  
And Newt kisses him. He tastes like smoke and stolen scotch, and hell if Minho doesn’t love it.

They pull apart, and Newt leans forward, puts his lips against Minho’s neck and whispers, “Really, though. Gally had a point.”

Minho rolls his eyes, and Newt leans back, gives his cheek a hard pinch. “Not kidding. I don’t give a shit how bloody fast you can run, or how much of a pussy you think you’ll look like if you don’t start another fuckin’ fight. I don’t to waste a night burying your body.”

“If you can find it,” Minho says, and Newt slaps his palm—just hard enough to sting—against Minho’s face.

The door to the alley bursts open and Thomas and Gally walk in, looking, among other things,  _ruffled_. Thomas is wearing Gally’s coat, deep tan and too wide at the shoulders and reaching down far below his knees, and quite a few of the buttons on Gally’s thin white shirt are undone. Their hair is mussed and their faces are flushed, and while Gally expression is a little  _too_  solemn, Thomas is having a hard time suppressing a grin.

“We’re gonna head out,” Gally says, clipped.

“Hope you had fun,” Minho says sarcastically, but he smiles and  _knows_. He raises his empty glass to them, and Newt snorts.

“Oh, we did, and we will,” Thomas calls sing-song behind his shoulder, and Gally shoves him sideways and rushes him quicker towards the exit. Minho, though, sees his hand on the small of Thomas’ back right before the door shuts behind them.

Minho turns back to Newt, looks him up and down. “So,” he starts, “Fun?”

Newt rolls his eyes. “How ‘bout we lock up, first?”

**Author's Note:**

> /whispers/ Minho restrain yourself being at a bar doesn’t mean you can be that thirsty
> 
> /sweats/ I watched goodfellas onc e (YES THAT’S WHY THEY SAY FUCK SO MUCH I LOVE IT OKAY THEY NEED TO SAY FUCK)  
> This became very self indulgent. Minewt? Thomally?? MOB AU??? That’s like three of my jams in one. The Jam Trifecta. 
> 
> but holy shit can anyone write me more of this PLS CAN ANYONE??? PLS. NEVER LET THIS AU DIE (WE COULD DO STAR CROSSED LOVERS FROM RIVAL GANGS I DON’T EVEN GIVE A SHIT GIVE IT TO MEEEEE)  
> ((this took me SO LONG I’m so sorry//written for tmrxmas//prompt maybe to my [tumblr](http://amazerunners.tumblr.com/ask)// i'm an asshole bye))


End file.
